


take shelter on my front porch

by sabrinachill



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17685218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinachill/pseuds/sabrinachill
Summary: Alex is hiding out in his cabin during the blackout; Michael comes to check on him.***Alex sits in a dark cabin and waits for a miracle.He’s not sure what it’ll be, or how it will happen — after all, it’s in the nature of miracles to be mysterious.He should know; he’s gotten one before. Lying in the scorching, blood-soaked sand, his body ripped into separate pieces, the world blurring and fading to black around him — only to wake up hours later safe (but not quite sound) in an Army hospital.He needs another one of those inexplicable miracles now.





	take shelter on my front porch

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Paula Cole's "Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?"

Alex sits in a dark cabin and waits for a miracle. 

He’s not sure what it’ll be, or how it will happen — after all, it’s in the nature of miracles to be mysterious. 

He should know; he’s gotten one before. Lying in the scorching, blood-soaked sand, his body ripped into separate pieces, the world blurring and fading to black around him — only to wake up hours later safe (but not quite sound) in an Army hospital. 

He needs another one of those inexplicable miracles now. 

Because he’s once again fractured, split apart into separate pieces that are moving in different directions. His mind wants to be a respectable veteran, his body wants to be a strong soldier, and his heart just wants _Michael._

So there are three Alexs right now, each barely functioning as a distant, distinct entity, and it’s utterly untenable. He needs to be reborn, remade, _reformed_ into a more cohesive whole. 

But he also knows that it’s impossible. That he’ll never be whole again; that some losses are permanent. His aching leg knows that better than anything. 

Losing Michael feels the same way. Like phantom pain, severed nerves screaming in grief at the loss of something they were once so intrinsically a part of that it’s impossible to imagine carrying on without them. 

And now they have to. 

Despite the long day on duty working to fix this blackout — too much of it spent standing, or so his leg is shouting at him — he wishes he could keep moving. He was always so kinetic when he was young, jogging and fidgeting and pacing. He could still do a lot of it now, of course, but those smaller movements always feel like a compromise, an insult, a mockery of the leaps and sprints he truly wants to make. 

So he’s taught himself to be still. Collected. Composed. 

_Compromised_ — though he never lets that one show. 

Unless he’s with Michael, anyway. 

At that thought he loses his last bit of patience and levers himself up from the chair, putting more weight than normal on the crutch as he limps into the kitchen. He normally hides how much the prosthetic hurts, just how raw and damaged he is, but he doesn’t have to here. Not in the middle of nowhere, in the nearly impenetrable dark. 

A few candles are scattered about — not enough to really see much, providing just enough light that he doesn’t knock into the furniture. It glints on the bourbon bottle when he opens the liquor cabinet and he doesn’t even bother with a glass. 

_What a disaster_ , he hears echoing between his ears in Jesse Manes’ unmistakably judgmental tone. _A disgrace_. 

Alex just takes a long pull straight from the bottle and savors the burn all the way down his throat. 

He’s going to drink enough to drown out that voice. And the memory of his own, ending things with Guerin. Again. For something stupid. Again. 

He’s not sure there’s enough bourbon in the world for _that_. 

So he takes the bottle and limps out onto the front porch, staring at the few stars visible between the tree branches, listening to the movements of small animals in the woods. 

And then he slumps into one of the rocking chairs and gets good and sloshed; by the time he hears the distant rumble of an engine he doesn’t think anything of it, too deep in self-loathing to take much note of his surroundings. 

Until the headlights sweep through the trees, that is. 

Until a familiar truck pulls to a stop in his driveway and an even more familiar face is staring at him across the moonlit expanse. 

An owl makes a mournful call overhead; the wind blows Michael’s curls across his face. He doesn’t move to push them away. 

Alex just lifts the bottle. “Drink?”

So Michael swaggers up to the porch. Every movement is so fake; how did it take Alex so long to see that it was so _fake_? Nothing more than a cover, an armor, a disguise to hide the broken boy inside. 

Michael takes the bottle, his fingers brushing against Alex’s for a moment, warm and rough. He tilts it against his lips and takes a big swallow, then swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sighs. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right out here, what with the blackout and everything.”

Alex rolls his eyes at the terrible pretense. “I’m in a cabin in the woods that’s stocked to survive a zombie outbreak or interplanetary alien war. I’m fine, Guerin.”

Michael’s jaw clenches and he thrusts the bottle back at Alex. “Fine then. Sorry to bother you.”

“Never said you were,” Alex says in a near-whisper, looking up at him. Michael is all hard lines and sharp angles, painted in shadows. And Alex is just drunk enough to ask, “Why do you keep coming back to me?”

Michael swallows, shaking his head a little. “Why do you keep letting me?”

Alex takes another drink and stretches his legs out, his palm rubbing at the amputated one. “This town, they see me as a war hero. My dad sees me as a poor reflection of the Manes name and a tool he can sometimes wield. You...you’re the only one who sees all the parts of me. You take all the broken, jumbled mess, and you don’t make me feel like I have to put it back together again.”

He tries to flex his toes — he swears that he still feels all ten, but, of course, only five respond. 

“It’s not the leg that makes you broken, Alex.”

Alex laughs, once. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Anyone else would try to deny that I’m broken at all.” He looks up at Michael, craning his neck a little; the world swirls a little too quickly before settling back into place. “ _That’s_ why we keep gravitating toward one another. You know the truth of me. You’re the only one who does.”

Michael sits in the rocking chair beside him, careful to weigh his words before speaking. “You’re right; you are broken. Of course you are. You’ve seen the worst this world has to offer, how ugly people can be, and knowing that… it steals something from you. So now you’ve got to learn how to live with that knowledge.”

Alex sounds cracked open, raw and ragged and hollow. “How?”

Michael takes the bottle from him and raises it in a mock toast. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” 

He takes a long drink and Alex just blinks for a moment, then bursts out laughing. Because this, _this,_ is the real Michael Guerin. Not a criminal or a brawler, or any of the other insults and slurs this town likes to throw his way. He’s complicated and unpolished, sure, but he’s also _good._ And strong. 

And, at his core, he’s a survivor. Just like Alex.

On impulse, Alex stands, the floorboards creaking beneath him, and maneuvers himself until he’s in front of Michael. He takes the bottle from his hands and sets in on the porch, and then he leans down on his good leg, bracing his hands on each armrest of Michael’s chair, his strong arms framing him in. 

He’s not laughing now.

Their faces are so close that his breath blows across Michael’s parted lips. “This doesn’t change anything,” he murmurs. “I’m still no good for anyone right now; I’m a complete mess.”

“Who isn’t?” Michael answers, and then surges forward to kiss him.

There’s nothing slow or soft about it; this is chemistry and physics, the inevitable fiery outcome of mixing two combustible substances. It’s harsh breath and grasping fingers, tugging hair and popping buttons, Michael forgetting himself for a moment and hauling Alex in closer to him, nearly knocking him off his precarious balance.

“Shit, I’m sorry—“

“Shut up,” Alex gasps, and drops to his knees as gracefully as the prosthetic will allow.

“No,” Michael says, “wait, you shouldn’t be—“

Alex glares up at him. “I still have both my knees, Guerin.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Michael says softly, running his fingers through Alex’s hair.

“You meant that you don’t think you deserve to have someone kneeling before you? Well, I guess I’m just going to have to show you how wrong you are.”

That’s all the warning Michael gets before his jeans are unzipped and Alex’s fingers hook inside the waist, yanking them down. He raises his hips a little to help and winds up with both the jeans and his underwear trapped around his thighs, Alex’s lips and tongue and fingers already working over him. Hot and wet, rhythmic and a little creative, Alex has learned a thing or twelve since high school. 

He hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue, his fist working with his mouth, moving fast and fierce.

Alex takes him as deep in his throat as possible and hums around him, sending sparks snapping across his nerve endings; the wooden arms of the rocking chair groan beneath Michael’s grip.

It's methodical and merciless and Michael feels himself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly quickly. “Alex,” he pants, touching his cheek with his scarred hand, “you have to stop, or I’m going to come.”

In answer, Alex just looks up at him and drags his red, wet lips up Michael’s length, then sucks him back down. 

It’s filthy and delicious; Michael groans and throws his head back and shoots straight down Alex’s throat.

Alex doesn’t relent until Michael is breathless and laughing a little, shoving at Alex’s shoulder. And even then he slides his lips off slowly, wiping his spit-slicked palm on Michael’s thigh.

Half of him wants to take Michael inside and spend the rest of his life naked and wrapped up with him; half wants to go back to the war just so he never sees Michael’s face again. 

In the end the electric company decides for him. 

The porch lights of the cabin blaze to life, the hum of a bug zapper and whir of the air conditioner breaking the perfect silence. 

And that’s the end of this. 

Because they’re a secret best kept in the dark; without it, they scuttle back to their corners, stunned and squinting at the spotlight.

Alex swipes a thumb across his wet lips; Michael tucks himself back into his jeans, the drag of the zipper loud in both their ears. 

“Thanks,” Alex mumbles, awkwardly. “For checking on me.”

“Any time,” Michael answers, standing and putting a little extra swagger in his hips, enshrouding himself in the macho cowboy persona once again. 

Alex can’t help himself; he watches every step Michael takes away from him.

But then, halfway to his truck, he stops and turns back. It's just enough that Alex can see his profile, can see that Michael isn’t quite meeting his eyes when he says, “About that weight we’re both carrying — I’m starting to learn something about it.” He scratches at his chin, nervous, but carries on. “It’s a little lighter if you find someone you can share it with.”

Alex gives him a tiny smile; it’s sadness tinged with hope, the same way he always feels around Michael. But with every passing day he can feel the sadness lessening a little, the hope growing. 

Maybe. Maybe someday.

He nods. 

“Thanks, Michael,” he says. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr - I'm sabrinachill there, too.


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